


To Guard an Emperor | To Serve Xing

by orphan_account



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, GC is a sucker for trans Lan Fan., Give him trans Lan Fan and he will cry of joy., Trans Female Character, Xing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 09:58:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1300798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Emperor is crowned—for the first time in centuries, a Yao sits on the throne with the imperial robes heavy on his scrawny fifteen-year-old shoulders and the imperial dragon and phoenix inked good-luck scarlet into the curve of his back—he brings with him a woman clad in black with a silver garrotte at her breast and a white muffler at her neck. The people of the Clans think nothing of his faithful bodyguard.</p><p>Of his shadow, as they call her in politer tones of tearoom meetings swathed with banners of gold.</p><p>Of his dog, as they call her in the coarser dialects of the multicoloured extravaganzas spreading out in concentric circle-spirals around the capital, as if a serpent had swallowed the palace and then laid out its glittering scales wrapped around the yellow-painted roads as it sank its venomous fangs ever so slowly into the palace walls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Guard an Emperor | To Serve Xing

**Author's Note:**

> How to be a prolific fanfic writer, a book by GC: Instead of tackling the five billion prompts dying in your inbox, blatantly steal someone's headcanons. OH BOY.
> 
> 100% of this was 100% inspired by tumblr user aceworu's headcanons regarding post-canon trans ling fan and I'm so happy I could cry tears of joy. Lan Fan is a dmab trans woman and Ling is a dmab bigender who switches between identifying as male and identifying as agender, spending most of his time in the former.
> 
> Unedited/unbeta'd/you know the drill. Enjoy and thank you for reading!

When the Emperor is crowned—for the first time in centuries, a Yao sits on the throne with the imperial robes heavy on his scrawny fifteen-year-old shoulders and the imperial dragon and phoenix inked good-luck scarlet into the curve of his back—he brings with him a woman clad in black with a silver garrotte at her breast and a white muffler at her neck. The people of the Clans think nothing of his faithful bodyguard.

Of his shadow, as they call her in politer tones of tearoom meetings swathed with banners of gold.

Of his dog, as they call her in the coarser dialects of the multicoloured extravaganzas spreading out in concentric circle-spirals around the capital, as if a serpent had swallowed the palace and then laid out its glittering scales wrapped around the yellow-painted roads as it sank its venomous fangs ever so slowly into the palace walls.

For a time Xing groans under the weight of paperwork. Laws copied by presses in the cities and by scribes in the further corners of the nation, where the people of the land tend the fields of budding rice and catch slippery fish in baskets woven in the brief winter months. Nobles protest and threaten war. Assassins hide in the shadows and slip poison to his meals. His bodyguard, his shadow, his dog slits the throats of enough informants and would-be executioners that court poets immortalise her deeds, praising the dedication to her master of a woman with the balance of a soaring crane and the beauty of a blossoming orchid, a woman who does not exist.

The Emperor might benefit from the burning shard of scarlet concealed within his breast, but nonetheless his enemies do not— _can_ not—know, and even so he rarely calls upon that particular lifeline for how fiercely Lan Fan forms an aegis against the disgruntled guardians of ancient, ingrained traditions meant for a word long passed.

After a time the country settles to an acquiescence of the Emperor’s ideals; Xing understands that the man upon the throne has not transformed into a lap-weasel of Amestris. Instead the poets praise his brilliance: stealing out the barbarians’ best-kept secrets to apply them gloriously to the greatest empire beneath the sun—to the very _centre_ of the _world_ —without carrying that which makes the Amestrisians _so_ barbaric. Then they turn back to composing ballads of the silent queen who seemingly exists solely to serve her liege. Or, per the flattering artistic depictions that have become popular with the peasantry, prompting his bodyguard to glower at the warped visages of herself that hang in shops across Xing, exists solely to beat back the enemies of Xing while appearing as beautiful as a heavenly spirit.

The Emperor has the poems read to him whenever they appear—frequently, for the phoenix warrior goddess, or whatever poetic epithet they’re using nowadays, has captured the hearts of the the people of Xing—and laughs to himself that they praise not her strength, nor her quickness, nor her cunning, in favour of spinning odes to her pale cheeks, her swaying hips, her lotus feet.

One day he sees the pain in her face. Though he does not order the poet to cease the ballads, which have done wonders for Xing accepting a head of guard who _is_ a woman, he reads them no longer, sickened by her agony. He doesn’t praise her beauty, not because he doubts it—even while trapped within the sable claws of Greed, he could scarcely drop his gaze—but because she doesn’t appreciate the words. Instead he commends her speed, her craftiness, her loyalty. Relishes the faint flush.

If she ever dons that mask again, he might well outlaw facial coverings over all of Xing just to see her smile.

Then, some enterprising maid or other discovers something that she clearly believes to be a truth worthy of a rumour through the infamous gossip mill of the palace, of the capital, of the entire country: An official announcement would not reach the borders in twice the time that a particularly potent secret. No matter whether perfect truth or utter lie. And so out go the fatal words with the agility of the singing nightlark and the talons of the screaming dragon hawk: _the Emperor’s alleyway whore is a man_.

Within an instant the image of the respected and beloved guardswoman flies from the shelf. Shatters into a thousand serrated shards upon the floor. In its place the rumour erects twisted shadows of things: that the Emperor had taken on a male lover but refused to admit his love for those of his sex; that a woman had transmuted her body to that of a man’s to increase her strength, or that a man had fallen into the ill favour of some god and thus been cursed to take a woman’s face; that the head of the Emperor’s guard deceived him in multiple ways than one like the traitorous slime that all women were; that this and this, or that and that, or any number of a thousand filthy falsehoods that seep thick and deep into the conversations around Xing.

The Emperor chuckles. To his bodyguard, his shadow, his dog, he mentions the cycle of his _chi_ from masculine to neutral and back again in an endless loop. “And if they knew their Emperor was not quite the man they _expected_ him to be?”

“My lord,” she says, “the peasantry would welcome you with open arms, and the nobles would send yet more flies to buzz ineffectually against your windows.”

“Are you referring to trained assassins as _flies_?”

His guardswoman smiles. Not with her mouth, which remains a firm line, but with her eyes. “You’re right, my lord. I should not call them; even flies can be seen and heard, and it would not do to disrespect them.”

Not a week after the initial onset of the rumour the formerly leading families of Xing react. A nobleman bows at the waist. Song, by the dusky orange of his silken robes and by the cheekbones high and sharp as razors. “Your Imperial Majesty, I have in my hands a list of names, which you may peruse at your leisure, blessed be thy name and long be thy reign, of the patriarchs and matriarchs of many of the most influential of the Fifty Clans, which have signed this petition, here, concerning the state and well-being of the head of guard and of Your Imperial Majesty. They petition, specifically, for his release, and for the instatement of a different guard, assumedly also pulled from the prestigious and prodigious ranks of the great Yao family, blessed and prosperous may they live.” The nobleman of the Song lowers the page, raises his chin expectantly, peers in earnest at a point not _quite_ at the Emperor’s line of sight—a transgression which would have earned him an execution under the tyrannical rule of the old emperor—but sufficiently high for his head of guard to tighten her grip on the blade hidden at her thigh.

The Divine Dragon, the Son of Heaven, the Emperor of Xing tilts his head down towards the worm at his feet. He can see the scrolled script, awkwardly written, that the nobleman followed to the letter. The Emperor curls his lip. “We’re afraid that we don’t follow.”

“Y-your Imperial Majesty, I— _this wretched one_ —apologises.” The nobleman prostrates himself seven times. The Emperor watches him silently while he stands, bowing once more. “These undeserving ones are protesting Your Majesty’s guardsman. He is unfit for the role of serving as the head of Your Majesty’s guard.”

“Ah, you see, therein lies the trouble.” The Emperor folds his hands together, fingertips splayed and touching, thumb to thumb, forefinger to finger. “As far as we’re aware of our guardswoman, she is perfectly fit. She has protected us from more assassination attempts within the past month than there are grains of rice in the Song treasuries.”

“Your Imperial Maj—”

The Emperor opens his eyes. Locks his gaze, dark and foreboding, with the nobleman of the Song. When he breaks the silence so tremulously coalesced about the shaking form of the nobleman, his voice is low and sweet as poisoned honey. “Dare you disrespect your Emperor?”

Prostration. Like a dog taught to lick its privates at the instance of trouble or a wolf lolling onto its back lest the alpha tear its innards from its belly, the nobleman drops to the floor. “N-n-n-no, Your Imperial Majesty, of course not. This accursed one, this unworthy one, this altogether unholy and unlucky one, would _never_ —”

“Then don’t.”

The nobleman bites his tongue in a desperate attempt to silence himself; blood squelches through his teeth, dribbling over his lips. The Emperor leans back into the lap of the throne. “Now, we suggest that you leave our presence immediately. Unless you came here with something useful, instead of wasting our time?”

His timbre squeaks out in a higher pitch than one the average person would be capable of, of either gender. “No, Your Imperial Majesty. This damned one cannot apologise enough.” Nearly fully on the ground he crawls backwards, as if chased by a wraith, and then the head of guard takes a step forward. The nobleman squawks, clamps his hands over his wretched mouth.

“My lord,” Lan Fan says for the first time through the tension, bending downwards to kneel at his side. “May this one do the honour?”

The Emperor’s features shift to an unreadable expression of utter placidity. A lake after a single ripple evens the mirrored surface. “Of course.”

By the time the guardswoman crosses the dragon-patterned tiles—the Emperor makes a mental note to replace the ground with a phoenix design at some point—to the nobleman, the Song is sniffling. Face reddened. Tears glistening on his cheeks. She raises a hand and he whimpers; the start of something like _don’t kill me don’t kill me oh gods please don’t kill me_ form on his lips, but then Lan Fan bows sharply, offering her flesh hand to him. “Prince Song, to your wealth and health.”

“Ah . . . ?” His pupils dart in the direct of the Emperor, who raises an eyebrow as though challenging the nobleman not to accept. “Ah. Yes. Of course, thank you, guardsm—” Another glance at the Emperor, another eyebrow raised. “—woman.”

“If you ever consider this one unfit for her position, this one welcomes you to challenge. This one will fight or outwit any contender that you might throw at her. If this one loses, _then_ you may protest this one’s place.” Lan Fan lifts the nobleman to his feet; she stands two centimetres and an infinity of starstuff higher than he. “Until then, _never_ question this one’s loyalty or dedication to her people. This one will serve her Emperor and her Xing until her dying breath.” She pauses; the apple at the nobleman’s throat bobs in his anxiety. “Understood?”

The Song jerks his head up and down with the rapidness of a man too petrified to breathe. She lets go of his hand; he flees. Upon his departure, Lan Fan sighs, her arms dropping to her sides. “I wasn’t too harsh, was I, my lord?”

“‘Course not. I’m surprised you didn’t knock his head off.” She narrows her eyes; he lifts his hands defensively. “I know you’d never hurt an innocent, Lan Fan, and that’s part of why I love you.”

“Ling.”

“That’s my name, yes.” He drums his fingers on his jawline. “Though I don’t hear it that often anymore. Just _Your Imperial Majesty_ this and _the Dragon of Xing_ that. Pffft. Dragons.”

“ _Ling_.”

He blinks; she stands before the throne, knees unbent, spine unbroken. “What is it, Lan Fan?”

She smiles. Not only with her eyes, this time, but also with her mouth, a crescent moon in the midst of the day. Moon in the sun, night in the day, yin in the pool of yang. “Thank you.”

Ling tilts his head inquisitively. “For—?”

“Serving Xing,” she says, simply, and returns to the shadows. He spends the rest of the evening utterly unable to wipe the grin from his face.


End file.
